James Hilton: Collected Novels (36 page)

George said: “Steady, lad.”

“Oh, I’m all right. I was just laughing at something she said about you when I happened to mention you were Mayor of Browdley. She said you were like a lion when you talked at public meetings, and behind that you were rather like a friendly old dog that nobody need be afraid of, but behind everything, else you had the secret strength of the dove.”

“The
what
?”

Charles repeated the phrase, after which they both laughed together. “Well, it’s the first time
I
ever heard of it,” George said. “And I still don’t know whether she meant that doves are strong or that I’m weak…Maybe she didn’t know herself when she said it.”

“Maybe. My father once said she said things not because they meant anything but to find out if they
did
mean anything.”

George made no comment.

“And sometimes her mind seems full of words waiting for other words to set them off like firecrackers.” The distant underground rumbling died away and all was silence. “Sounds as if it might be over…Where d’you think it was? Just tip and run on some little place—they do that, don’t they?” With difficulty the boy got up and walked to the window. “George—do you mind if I call you George?—George, I
wish
I could be of some use—some
real
use—in this blasted country…If only I could fly again—but that’s out, and so far I can’t seem to settle to what’s in. I guess millions of us are going to feel like that after the war.” He moved restlessly. “How about a stroll? I can, if I’m careful.”

“Not till the All Clear sounds. Take it easy.”

“All right, all right. I’ll bet you make a good warden. When are you going back to that town of yours?”

“Tomorrow night, I hope.”

“So soon?”

“I’ll have finished my work in London and I’ve got plenty waiting for me at home.”

“They can’t do without you?”

“They could, but they mightn’t want to.”

“I’ll bet you’re a good mayor, too. I’ll bet everything in that town runs like clockwork.”

“Oh, not so bad. I’d match it against any other place in England for being efficiently managed, if that’s what you mean.” George smiled to himself as he thought of the matter, then saw the other’s quizzical, slightly sardonic glance, and wondered if he were being baited. “Look here,” he continued, in some embarrassment. “I’m showing off too much…Aye, and I’d have been down that shelter too, but for showing off. Maybe that’s what kept us both here like a couple of fools.” Charles shook his head, so George added: “Or maybe not in your case.”

“No, George. Oh God, no. If you
must
have a reason, it’s simply that I don’t give a damn what happens. To me personally, that is. I’m scared, and yet I don’t care. When you’ve seen a lot of your friends killed you can’t think you’ve survived by any special virtue of your own. Then why the hell
have
you survived? And the next step in argument is why the hell should you go on surviving?”

George said quietly: “I don’t like to hear you talk like that.”

“It’s better than having you think it was bravery—or even bravado…Well, let’s discuss something pleasanter. That town of yours, if you like.”

“Provided it doesn’t bore you.”

“Not at all. I wouldn’t even mind seeing the place sometime.”

“Why don’t you then—sometime?”

It was half an hour before the All Clear sounded, and George was just in time to catch his train.

Of course they began to correspond again, and within a short time it happened that George was called to London for another official conference. This time it did not spread over a week end, and he was far too conscientious to pretend it did; but by routing his return journey, with much extra discomfort, through Cambridge, he was able to spend a whole afternoon with Charles. He was delighted to note an improvement in the boy’s physical condition; he could use his legs more easily, and since he had been recommended to do so for exercise, the two spent part of the time strolling slowly about the Backs, which at that time of the year were at their loveliest.

Less reassuring to George was Charles’s state of mind, which still seemed listless and rather cynical, especially at the outset. He still questioned the value of anything he was doing at Cambridge, and George was too tactful to reply that even if it had no value at all, it was as good a way of passing a difficult time as any other. “But you like it here, don’t you?” George asked, “Or would you rather be at home?”

“I haven’t a home,” Charles answered, so sharply that George did not probe the point. But then the boy smiled. “I’m sorry—you must think I’m very hard to please. Of course Cambridge is all right, and I’ve really nothing to complain of. Everybody’s perfectly charming to me. The dons don’t mind whether I work or not—the whole atmosphere is timeless. It’s a bit frightening at first. And that air of detachment people have here. One of the St. Jude’s dons—a little wizened fellow who’s the greatest living authority on something or other—began talking to me quite casually the other day about the Channing case—took it for granted that I didn’t mind everyone knowing that my grandfather served a long sentence in jail. And of course I don’t mind—why should I? After all, my father didn’t exactly distinguish himself either—ever heard of Kemalpan? Well, I won’t go into that…and damn it all, I don’t care—why
should
I care?”

“Aye, why should you?” George interrupted. “You haven’t done so badly yourself—so far.”

“So far and no further, though—that’s what it looks like.”

George looked straight into the boy’s eyes. “You were talking about one of the dons here.”

“Oh yes—the one who reminded me that my grandfather was a crook. But he must have studied the trail pretty closely from the way he talked. He said John Channing was quite a pioneer in his way, and that his scheme for reorganizing the cotton industry was very similar to the one sponsored by the Bank of England twenty years later. ‘Unfortunate that your grandfather was tempted to borrow money by printing too many stock certificates. He should have become Governor of the Bank, then he could have printed the money’.” Charles imitated the high-pitched voice of the don. “So utterly detached—it made things rather easy between us afterwards. And then there’s another fellow—a very famous scientist—who remarked pleasantly to a small crowd of us at a tea party—‘The Germans really do have the most God-awful luck—you almost feel sorry for them’—but nobody turned a hair or thought anything of it, because everyone knows he’s working day and night on some poison gas to kill the whole German nation if they start that game themselves.”

George answered: “You put your finger on a point, though, when you said ‘a very famous scientist.’ Anyone not so famous could get into trouble if he talked like that at the Marble Arch to a crowd.”

“Oh, I don’t know. He might be booted out of the Park by a few bus drivers. Probably nothing more…Because the English, after all, are a race of eccentrics. They don’t think it’s odd that people should be odd. And they always bear in mind the possibility that the lunatic view might, after all, be right. That’s what makes them tolerant of their enemies.”

George nodded. “Which is rather wise, because often it’s only from amongst your enemies that you can pick your friends.”

“Has that been your experience, George?”

“Aye—as a minority member on a town council where I’ve had more of my own way, I reckon, than most of the chaps on the other side with all their voting majority. But it’s taken time—and patience.”

“But what happens to the battle, George, if you win over all your enemies to help you fight it?”

“Why, I’ll tell you what happens—the battle’s over, and that’s what everybody’s after, isn’t it?”

“No, not exactly. What everybody wants is victory.”

“And everybody can’t get it. But you can make a lot of folks
think
they’ve got it. Remember Philip Snowden back in 1929—no, you’d be too young—anyhow, we all cheered like mad because he made France pay an extra million pounds of war debt! Think of it—one whole extra million pounds! The Fighting Yorkshireman! Wouldn’t have been easy to forecast how we’d all feel about the Fighting Frenchman a bit later!”

“Does it prove we shouldn’t have cheered?”

“Maybe not. Perhaps it proves that though it’s hard to get the victory you want, it’s even harder to want the victory you got ten years back.”

“Which is the devil of a way to look at things in the middle of a war.”

“Aye, I can see it might be.”

Charles walked on for a little way, then said thoughtfully: “You know, George, you have a rather Machiavellian mind.”

George laughed. “Twisty, you mean, eh? That’s what my opponents say. But I’ll give you one good tip in politics—keep straight from year to year, and you can twist as much as you find convenient from day to day. And as for the really big fellows—the great men of the world—if
they
keep straight from century to century, they can do
their
twisting on a yearly basis. Does that make any sense?”

Charles laughed. “What
doesn’t
make sense to me is that you didn’t try for Parliament. Or did you—ever?”

“Aye, a few times.”

“And no luck? How was that?”

George answered after a pause: “Hard to say. Perhaps just what you said—no luck.”

But the recollection was now without a pang, or at any rate the pang was smothered in much greater pleasure; for George had made a discovery—that he could talk to Charles as he had never been able to talk to anyone—even Wendover, with whom there had always been the prickly territory of dogma. But the boy, less schooled in dialectic than the priest, nevertheless had a clear, intricate mind—almost too intricate, almost ice-clear; and George argued with him joyfully every foot of the way from St. Jude’s to Queens and then back again, on that lovely May afternoon. All the time a curious happiness was growing in him—something he did not diagnose at first, but when he did, it came in the guise of a guess—that this must be what it felt like to have a grown-up son. During the last half-mile they increased pace, because Charles was in a hurry to get to his rooms. “That’s what your arguments do, George—make me forget the time…And I don’t want to keep Julie waiting.”

“Julie?”

“The…er…the nurse you met. Miss Petersham.”

George didn’t think it could matter much if she did wait for a few minutes, but he said merely: “And a very nice girl, too.”

“You thought so?”

“Aye.” George smiled and added: “We had quite a conversation on the way to her bus. She told me one thing you didn’t let out.”

To George’s immense astonishment Charles flushed deeply and began to stammer: “You mean—about—our—engagement?”

George swallowed hard. “Well, no—as a matter of fact, it was your Distinguished Flying Cross.”

“Oh,
that
…”

George could see that Charles regretted having given himself away. He held the youth’s arm as they began to climb the staircase. He said: “I’m sorry if they were both things you didn’t want me to know, but now I
do
know I’d like to offer my congratulations…and double ones.”

“Thanks…Of course there’s no secret about a D.F.C…The other thing
is
more or less—has to be—because—well, it depends on what sort of a recovery I make. I wouldn’t have her tie herself to an old crock. Or even a young one.”

He had left his room unlocked, and the girl was already there when they entered it. She greeted them both and immediately set about preparing the equipment for massage treatment.

Charles said abruptly: “He knows all about us, Julie.” She looked up, startled—to Charles, then to George, then to Charles again. “Did you tell him?”

“No…it sort of slipped out. But I don’t really mind.” Then Charles laughed and George shook hands with the girl and said how pleased he was. “I was praising you to him even before I knew,” he said. It was a happy moment. “And now I’d better leave if I’m going to catch my train…I’ll see you both again before long, I’m sure.”

He shook hands again, but the girl followed him to the door. “My turn to see you to the bus this time.”

“All right.”

Crossing the court towards the college entrance she said: “I’m glad you know. Charles thinks such a lot of you.”

“He
does
?”

Something in his voice made her laugh and ask: “Why, are you surprised?”

And George, who was so used to being liked yet could never somehow get over the surprise of having it happen to him again, replied truthfully: “In a way, I am, because it’s hard for a lad of his age to get along with an old chap like me. Yet we do get along.”

“I know. And you’re not old.”

“Older, then.”

“You can be a great help to him anyhow.”

“You too, lass. And far more than I can.”

“Well…he needs all the help we can both give him.”

“He’s getting better, though?”

“Oh yes—physically. It’s in other ways we can help him most.”

“I understand. There’s something he hasn’t got—yet. It’s a sort of reason to be alive. He doesn’t know why he wasn’t killed like so many others—he’s said that to me more than once. Does he talk like that to you?”

“Sometimes,” she answered.

They walked a little way in silence; then, as they reached the curb, she said: “Mr. Boswell, I’m going to be very frank and ask you something—as a friend of his …”

“Yes?”

“Will you…would you help him…
even against his mother
?”

A bus to the station came along. “The next one will do,” George muttered. And then, as they stepped back from the commotion of passengers getting on and off, he went on muttering: “Help him—against his mother—eh? Why, what’s wrong about his mother?”

She answered: “I only saw her once, when she came to visit him, and of course to her I was only a nurse. And I
was
only a nurse—
then.
But I could see that she wasn’t good for Charles. She got on his nerves. She wants to
possess
him—her whole attitude was like that—and I don’t think she’s the right person, and even if she were, I don’t think he’s the sort of person who
ought
to be possessed—by anyone. He should be free.” She continued after a pause: “Maybe you’re wondering about my motives in all this. Well, so far as I’m concerned he
is
free. I love him, that’s true, but I only agreed to the engagement because I thought it would help him—which it did, and still does. But when he’s better he may feel differently. I shan’t try to hold him. He’s too young, anyhow, to decide about a wife…I want him to be
free.
I don’t want him to be possessed.”